by Shea, Alan
I walk back to the flats. The street door is wide open. I walk down the passageway, my shoes leaving water footprints. My footsteps rebound from the walls. I manage a smile. I’m being followed by myself. I go to push open the door; it’s ajar. My heart leaps. ‘Reggie?’ But the room is in darkness. I reach in for the light switch and . . . ‘What?’ For a second my knees actually buckle – my stomach drops. A hand shoots out from the darkness, grabs my wrist. I pull back and manage to click on the light switch.
‘Well, well, look who’s here?’
It’s him. He must have been standing by the door in the dark just waiting for me. I try to pull free. His grip tightens, hurts my wrists.
He pulls me. I grab the door frame.
‘Leave me alone.’
He bends down until his face is level with mine. Those cold grey eyes.
‘Not so fast.’
Then he jerks back his arm and pulls me into the room. I stumble. Grab at a chair. It topples. I fall on to it. He’s standing over me, looking down. He has a sneer on his face. He looks grubby like he hasn’t washed or shaved for a while. I know he’s been to the pub. His words slur like they’re stones in his mouth. Something to be spat out.
‘Reggie again, eh? Always Reggie with you. Reggie this. Reggie that. Wasting your time with him. You and him and your daft ideas. You should be here looking after me, keeping this place tidy. You think you’re so clever. You and that bloody imagination of yours. Imagining you’re something you’re not, that’s what you imagine.’
He starts to laugh. ‘And you know what? It’s all rubbish. Like the rubbish you keep in that sad old biscuit tin, the rubbish that you line up on the windowsill like it’s something to be proud of and the rubbish in your head.
His voice changes. ‘When you were a little girl it was different. You looked up to me then, but you had to go and get ideas, didn’t you? Messing about with your writing and drawing. Thinking you were so special. Then that troublemaker upstairs came along.’
He takes out his tobacco tin. Tries to roll a cigarette. Drops most of the tobacco. He looks down at it as if he can’t manage the effort to pick it up.
‘Still, I should have known. You’ve always been ungrateful, selfish, full of yourself. You and your stupid made-up worlds. I should never have listened to your mother. I should have beaten it out of you years ago.’
I stand up. I’m nearly as tall as he is now. I look straight into his eyes.
‘You’re just a bully. I’m not scared of you any more.’
For a while he holds my stare.
‘Oh no? Well, we’ll see about that.’
Something flickers in his eyes. His mouth twists. His hands go to his belt buckle and I know what’s coming.
‘I forgot; it’s your birthday today, isn’t it? Well, maybe I should give you a little present of my own.’
He wraps the belt around his hands. The buckle is loose, flaps. I back away towards the door. Then I feel it again. The touch of a feather. A breath on my face. He stops. Looks around as if he’d felt something too.
‘What was that?’
‘What? I didn’t hear anything.’
‘Someone just said something.’
‘I didn’t hear anything.’
He looks at me, almost as it he’s trying to make up his mind.
Then he shrugs. ‘It’ll keep.’
He does up his belt, pushes me out of the way, and slams out. I can hear him going down the passage.
I pick up the chair. Straighten the table. Why did he stop? He’s never done that before. I pick up an envelope from the floor. It has my name on the front. It’s in Mum’s handwriting. It’s only a bit torn. I take it back down the passage to my room.
I’m shivering. It’s cold in here. Always is. But I’m not sure if that’s why I’m shivering. I get into bed and pull the blanket over me. Her handwriting on the card is small and untidy. Happy birthday, love, see you soon.
I get out of bed and go over to the window for more light. I can see it better now. I put the card on the windowsill and curl up under the covers.
I wake with a jolt. Must have gone to sleep. Someone’s tapping on the window. For an instant I’m frightened. Is it him? I get up. Swing my legs off the bed. Knock something off as I do so. I pick it up, trying to clear the sleep from my head. It’s Granddad’s book from the library. I go over to the window to see who’s out there. But it’s just the rain, patterning the glass.
I feel trapped. I have to get out from this cramped, damp little room. I’ll take the book up to Granddad. Maybe Reggie will be there and I can find out why he’s avoiding me. I go out into the dim passage. Creak up the stairs past the shadows. No games tonight. Knock hard. Knock again. No answer. Then I see it. A scrap of paper pinned to the door.
Gone to Mrs Gilbey’s
I put it in my pocket, go back down the stairs and out into the street. Outside it’s dark except for a thin line of light at the edge of the sky. The curtain of night, not yet pulled down far enough. It’s still raining. Raindrops flurry like snow, layering my hair, battering the yellow light of the lamppost. Moths around a flame. Somewhere, far away, thunder drum-rolls. Faint glimmers of lightning pulse. I shudder.
I walk quickly, pulling my coat closer to my body. I’m looking forward to getting there. Thinking of the neat room. The smell of polish. I walk to the end of Hawkins Street. Turn right, into Lyndsay Street. Then down to number fourteen. Nearly there. Soon I’ll see the light in the window that comes from the lamp which—
The disappointment stabs me like a pain. My thoughts are cut off. There is no light in the window. The house is in darkness. My body shivers, fed up with being cold and hungry, with me always doing the wrong thing. My hand reaches out and knocks. Silence. I can’t think what to do next. I feel beaten. Confused. There’s no point standing here. I turn and begin to walk away, back up Lyndsay Street, thinking what a terrible birthday it’s been.
‘Alice.’
A soft voice. I look around. Can’t see anybody.
‘Alice.’
I see her white hair in the darkness, peering round the door. ‘Emma, sorry, did I wake you?’
‘No dear, I’m making myself a hot drink.’ She looks up. ‘Looks like a storm coming. You’d better not stand out there. Fancy joining me in some Ovaltine?’
‘I would if I knew what it was.’
‘Come on, then. You’re a girl who doesn’t mind taking a risk.’ There’s a tease in her voice. Then she says, ‘It’s like hot chocolate, but not. If you see what I mean.’
I laugh. Hot chocolate but not sounds good enough to me. As I get closer she puts on the hall light. Opens the door wider and lets me in. She shuts the door behind me. The light is bright. I blink, trying to get my eyes used to it. The hallway seems different, but it takes me a few seconds to work out why. Paper chains hang in arches from the wall. The kind that you make yourself from coloured pieces of paper.
Then the door to the front room opens. Someone inside must have pulled it open. This is even stranger, since Mrs Gilbey lives alone, and at this moment is standing behind me.
‘Go on, go through.’
I feel her hands on my shoulders, guiding me towards the door. The open doorway lets me see enough of the room to know that it, too, is in darkness.
Until I walk in. As I do, the light snaps on. The light is welcoming, comforting. There are even more paper chains, balloons as well. Over the fireplace is a big sign. It says:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ALICE
I blink, in case I’m dreaming. Sitting on the settee are Granddad and Reggie. A figure jumps from behind the door, a black balaclava hiding his face. Something sticks in my back.
‘Gotcha! Hands up. Friend or foe?’
‘Friend.’
‘What’s the password?’
‘Dunno.’
‘’Ow d’you know that? Pass, friend. I would give you a kiss but I ain’t got me gas mask on.’
I grab him and give him a kiss. That’ll t
each him!
Granddad gets up. ‘Happy birthday, lassie. Come on in, you look cold.’
Reggie says, ‘You took your time. I thought you were never going to come.’
‘I’ve been looking for you all day.’
‘Well, now you’ve f-found me,’
‘How did you know I would?’
‘I kn-know you.’
‘Where were you?’
‘Helping Mrs Gilbey, and other things.’
I feel Mrs Gilbey’s hands on my shoulders. She kisses the top of my head. ‘Happy birthday, my dear. Here, let me take your coat.’
I don’t say anything, because I can’t. I’d like to, but the words have got stuck in my throat. She goes across to the table and, like a conjuror, pulls off the white tablecloth. It reveals the fullest table I’ve ever seen. Sandwiches and cakes and jellies – so many different kinds!
‘Those are fish paste, those are Spam, and over there there’s cheese and tomato.’
Granddad gets himself a plate. ‘Looks wonderful. Well, I for one am famished.’
I remember how hungry I am. Mrs Gilbey starts to cut the home-made fruit cake into slices.
‘Come on, then. I don’t want any leftovers.’
We fill our plates. Reggie moves over so that there is room for me next to him. ‘Happy birthday.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Sorry about g-going missing, only there was a lot to do.’
‘You’re always going missing. Think I’ll start calling you the invisible man.’
But I’m so glad. I feel as though I’ve been rescued from something. Saved. A bubble feeling that might burst if I touch it.
Soon everyone is talking and laughing. Mrs Gilbey and Granddad talk about all kinds of things. The birthdays they had when they were children. What they did when they were young. Where they’d been. You can tell they like each other – they share the conversation, taking it in turns to talk and listen. They ask us questions the way older people do when they want to remember being young. Norman keeps telling jokes and talking about the war. I tell them a bit about my play, but mostly me and Reggie sit and listen. It’s like we’re both waiting for our time.
Mrs Gilbey puts on her wireless for a while, so there’s music. There’s not much left on the table now, except for a few pieces of cake and some sandwiches. Me, Reggie and Norman ate most of the cake first, while Mrs Gilbey and Granddad were eating the sandwiches. There’s still a slice of bread pudding left. It goes quiet for a while, the way it does sometimes. It’s a nice quietness, as if it’s supposed to happen and no one feels the need to fill it.
I offer Reggie the last piece of bread pudding. He takes it. ‘You’re not s’posed to do that.’
‘What?’
‘Take the last piece.’
He grins. ‘Someone has to.’
He’s got a point. As usual.
‘Why didn’t you tell me about this?’
‘Because it was a surprise. That’s the point of surprises. You surprise people.’ He munches into the bread pudding. ‘This is good.’
‘You could’ve given me a clue.’
‘You’re the one who r-reads all the Sherlock Holmes books.’ He finishes the pudding and licks his fingers.
Mrs Gilbey and Granddad are looking through a photograph album. Mrs Gilbey looks up. She shuts the album. ‘I’ve got a little something for you, sweetheart.’ She goes across to the chest of drawers, opens a drawer and takes out a small, thin parcel wrapped in blue tissue paper. She gives it to me.
‘What is it, Emma?’
‘Only one way to find out, dear.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’
I slowly unwrap the paper, trying not to tear it. Inside is a pen. Just like the one Sister Vincent has. It’s beautiful. Green. With a 22-carat gold nib. I’ve never had anything like this before in my whole life.
‘Blimey. It’s brilliant . . . fantastic.’
‘For you to write your stories.’
Norman comes over. ‘You’d better take this.’ Looks round suspiciously. ‘You might need it. They never captured Hitler, you know. He could still be on the prowl.’
Granddad says, ‘Not in Hawkins Street, though, Norman, surely?’
Norman gives the side of his nose a knowing tap. Hands me something wrapped in newspaper. I open it. It’s a wooden rifle and a red balaclava. I wonder if he’s thinking of starting his own army and I’m the first recruit.
‘Thanks, Norman.’
‘That’s all right. I made it meself. Fires fifty rounds a minute. Lee Enfield. Best rifle ever made.’
‘Thanks. It’ll be really . . . useful.’
‘S’what I thought. Can’t be too careful. Me mum made the balaclava.’
‘It’s lovely.’
‘Red. For a girl. No good on night patrol, though, you’d be a sitting duck.’
‘Right.’
Granddad comes across. ‘And this is from me.’ He hands me an envelope.
Mrs Gilbey smiles at him and says, ‘Just like a man not to wrap a present up.’
I open the envelope. Inside are two keys. I look at him, puzzled.
‘It’s the key to the piano, lassie. The other is the key to the flat. In case we’re not there and you want to practise. We want you to have it. It’s not worth much, but it can still play a sweet tune in the right hands. Oh, and don’t worry, it can stay upstairs for as long as you want it to. Go up and play any time you want. There are some old music books there for beginners. They might be of some use.’
As I look at the little key on the blue ribbon, my eyes blur. I try to speak, but I know if I do I’ll just start crying. I lean across and kiss him on the cheek.
Reggie gets up. Goes across to his coat hanging over the chair. Comes back carrying a small, oblong package. ‘And I g-got you this.’
‘Looks like a book.’
‘Instructions on how to f-fire Norman’s gun! Only kidding.’
‘Wow . . . Sherlock Holmes.’
‘It’s The Hound of the Baskervilles.’
‘Haven’t read that one.’
‘G-good.’
Norman looks over my shoulder.
‘’Ere, Al, Sherlock Homes, he’s the bloke in our play.’
Our play. I like that.
‘I’ve been learning my lines. Can’t wait. My mum’s coming to see me. She reckons that . . . Blimey, my mum! I forgot all about her. I said I wouldn’t be long. Better get back. Thanks for the grub, Mrs G. Brilliant. I won’t be able to eat for a week. See you two later.’
‘See you, Norm.’
Mrs Gilbey gets up. ‘Don’t forget your balaclava, Norman, it’s blowing up out there.’ She turns to me, looking a bit concerned. ‘Looks like it’s going to be a bad storm.’
I pull a face, shrug my shoulders.
‘Angus, would you take those plates out to the kitchen for me?’
They go out, still talking. Suddenly we’re on our own, me and Reggie.
‘Good b-birthday?’
‘In the end, the best.’
He looks at me like the cat that got the cream.
‘I’ve got s-something else for you.’
‘What?’
He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out an envelope. Looks like another birthday card.
‘It’s what I’ve been telling you about. It doesn’t look m-much but it’s p-probably the most important birthday present you’ll ever have.’
‘What is it?’
I slip my fingers inside the envelope. Peer in. It’s not a birthday card.
‘Be careful, it’s a bit f-fragile.’
I slide it out of the envelope slowly. It’s a photograph. I hold it out. Let the light play on it.
It takes me a while to take it in. To work out what he’s showing me. It’s my photograph but it’s been joined to another one. It’s not perfect; there’s a ragged white line running through where the two halves have been joined.
‘What is it?’
‘Can’t you see? It’s the other half of your photo!’
I peer at it.
‘It’s a bit blurred Reggie. I . . .?’
He interrupts, sounds excited.
‘Look carefully.’
I do. Shadows pull across its surface. Tease my eyes. Shapes on paper. Light and shadow. Negative. Positive.
‘It nearly fits perfectly. And see, you were right, the man in your half does have his arm around a lady and look . . .’
He sounds really excited like he’s just discovered buried treasure or something
‘. . . the lady is holding a baby too.’
He’s right but I feel like I’m missing something. Being stupid. I look up at him. His eyes are bright.
‘I couldn’t believe it when you first showed me your half. I knew straight away it would f-fit my bit and it does, doesn’t it?’
‘Your bit? What d’you mean?’
There’s something else in his voice now. Like he’s just run the longest race ever and come in first. It’s over and he’s the winner.
’The other half is m-mine. I’m the other b-baby. I had the other half of the photograph. It was found with me. Just like your bit was with you. L-look at the man. Anything familiar about him?’
I peer at the face again. Turn it to the light. One minute you can see something, then you can’t. I’m not sure what to say, but he doesn’t wait for a reply.
‘He looks like you, Alice. The same curly hair and your lopsided grin. You must be able to see that. It’s your dad, Alice. Your real dad.’
The words spin in my head.
‘My dad? My real dad?’
My stomach yo-yos but I force myself to take my time. Look carefully. Take in every detail of the photo.
‘But if it is my dad, what’s he doing with his arm around the lady who’s holding you? This is bonkers, Reggie. I don’t get any of it.’
‘Wake up! I thought you were supposed to solve puzzles. It’s a photograph of a family, Alice, and we’re both in it . . . Part of the same family.’
He pauses, grins.
‘Which means . . .’
He pauses again, waits for it to sink into my overloaded brain. And it does.